


In the Dark of the Moon

by Azrael



Series: BBC Sherlock in BDSM World [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Sex, Brief mention of sex trade, But really very fluffy, Dom Sherlock, Fluff, I'm very proud, Japanese Rope Bondage, John's father is a terrible person, Johnlock Roulette, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mild Angst, Non-dynamic John, Not for either Sherlock or John, Oral Sex, Posessive John, Really very mild angst and SO MUCH FLUFF!!!, Tantric Sex, discussion of past abusive relationship, posessive sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 08:50:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3563549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azrael/pseuds/Azrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where 95% of the population is either a Dom, a sub, or a switch, what if the other 5% were completely non-dynamic?  Could a relationship between a Dom like Sherlock and a non-dynamic like John ever work?</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Dark of the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> I adore BDSM world and have been working on this story for a year because I wanted to get it as right as I could. I'm intrigued by the idea that there might be people in this type of AU who, for all intents and purposes, were considered deviants for not falling into any of the basic categories. It' been eating my brain really. I'm very nervous to post this because it's a labor of love, so PLEASE, comment and let me know what you all think. Love, hate, or indifferent, I want to know. Love you all! Enjoy!

Sherlock hated cases like this.

The sex slave trade was so very base and, really, quite pointless. A full forty percent of the world’s population identified as submissive, another fifteen were switches, and then another forty percent were dominants. Why then, with ninety-five percent of the people on the planet of a like mind, were there still idiots out there determined to enslave the final five percent who were non-dynamic?

You wanted a sub who never said no? They existed. You wanted a Dom who thought a scene was just the unpleasant business you had to get through to reach aftercare? They existed. You wanted a partner who would sometimes bend to your will and occasionally take away your responsibilities and just let you feel? Guess what? They existed!

Furthermore, wonder of wonders, the internet existed too! It was like a magical portal to any flavor of sexual partner or scene you were into. However, if that was too impersonal, there were clubs, parties, the bar scene, or, if you were really desperate, sweet Aunt Mildred’s bridge partner’s insert-unattached-relative-here. In other words, their society had built itself around the finding, having, and keeping of a satisfactory sex life from puberty to death if a body felt so inclined. The only caveat being that one out of every hundred people or less were non dynamic and therefore de facto off limits without some very, very, very exhaustive negotiation involved. That meant the math worked out to roughly 6.7 BILLION people on the ruddy planet to choose from and some perverted arseholes needed to dehumanize the vanishingly small subsection of the population _who didn’t actually get off on it._

Lestrade knew he hated these things as well. In fact, the other Dom had been subjected to more than one tirade from Sherlock on this very topic every time the bleeding heart DI had tried to cajole the sociopathic detective into giving a shit about the human cost. Unfortunately, Sherlock found very little satisfaction in unraveling a different iteration of the same scheme over and over again, which was really all it was. In fact, in this instance, Sherlock had merely stumbled upon the trafficking ring when the quite ingenious serial poisoner case he had been contracted for privately had taken a bizarre turn in that direction. He literally hadn’t been able to help but crack open the largest non-dynamic trafficking ring in the history of Great Britain completely by accident. He’d be lucky if the Yard didn’t string him up out of sheer frustration.

Honestly, Sherlock just wanted to leave already. He was tired of the swirling colors of the panda cars’ lights, tired of the seemingly endless march of broken and hollow-eyed victims that made his stomach swoop in alarming and unpleasant fashion, and he was really, especially tired of the twitterings of Lestrade and the paramedics over the bullet wound in his left bicep. There was really very little to fuss about. It was a through and through after all. It hadn’t hit anything vital, just needed some stitching up and a few painkillers and he was good to go. Sadly, that wasn’t going to happen without far more effort than he had the energy to expend right now and he knew it, so he cut off the high pitched blathering by tossing his head and looking off into the middle distance mulishly.

“Fine! Fine, fine, fine! I’ll go to bloody hospital alright? Now just shut up and let me think!”

With that, Sherlock stood up and threw off the hideous orange shock blanket the paramedics always insisted he wear for some random period of time to stave off a non-existent swoon and made to stride off toward the road. Lestrade shot out a hand that closed like a vise quite a bit closer to the bullet wound in Sherlock’s arm than the detective found optimally comfortable, but then Lestrade was quite a bit of a sadist so…

“No Sherlock, you go in the ambulance, where there’re things like medicine and bandages and very little chance of gangrenous infection!”

Sherlock ignored the pain and shrugged him off almost violently.

“Oh please, I’m not going to get gangrene and I don’t need an ambulance, try not to be so stupid. I’m fine in a cab.”

Lestrade threw up his hands in exasperation.

“No! God, you self important twat! Just…just wait here fifteen minutes and do not move and I will go hand this over to Donovan and take you there myself, _yes,_ in _my_ car and not a police car alright? Just, bloody hell, just give me a few minutes, Christ!”

With that Lestrade stormed away to give Donovan her orders. Sherlock smirked, and settled in to wait for his free ride.

/////////////

Sherlock was in trouble. He was in very deep shit actually. He was pretty sure he was in love. He was definitely neck deep in the strongest infatuation he’d ever had the misfortune of falling into. This was a disaster.

He had been dropped off by Lestrade more than two hours ago and was currently loitering in a bed in A&E for the pathetic reason that he wanted to take the attending physician home with him, tie him to his bed and not let him leave for at least a week. He wanted to make the good doctor writhe and moan and scream his name in the greatest pleasure he had ever felt. He wanted to mark his skin with fingers and teeth until he knew without a doubt that he was wholly Sherlock’s. He wanted to see the heirloom platinum collar Grandmére had left to him around that golden throat.

Yes, Doctor John Watson was trouble alright.

He was also, irony of ironies considering what Sherlock had been doing this evening, completely non-dynamic and possibly monosexual towards women. Really, the doctor was quite the deviant. Sherlock was enthralled.

Just then, Dr. Watson (or John as Sherlock was already calling him in his head) peeked around the curtain surrounding Sherlock’s gurney and smiled a heart melting grin when he saw Sherlock still sitting there “waiting” for his painkiller to kick in. In truth, the medicine had started working twenty minutes ago and Sherlock was feeling nothing but a mild ache. But now he got to see his doctor one more time. Thank God this was St. Bart’s and not some other hospital. It would make the light stalking Sherlock was planning that much easier.

“Well Mr. Holmes, the nurse tells me you have quite the tolerance for our painkillers.”

Sherlock debated and then decided he should get the humiliating part out of the way right now instead of risking John finding out another way and ruining any chance he had.

“I have a rather unfortunate history with both stimulants and opiates; cocaine and heroin mostly. The standard painkillers tend to be a bit dulled in my system even with being clean for six years. It’s a bit of an annoyance as I do tend to occasionally find myself injured. It’s an occupational hazard in my line of work.”

John looked down at his chart, nodded, made a note, and then turned to the little computer on wheels he had brought with him and pulled up Sherlock’s records. Then he paled a bit.

“Mr. Holmes, your records indicate you’ve been in for some very questionable injuries six times this year alone and it’s only May. What exactly do you do for work if I may ask?”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked at John’s obvious worry. It was quite gratifying.

“I’m a consulting detective, only one in the world. I invented the job.”

John laughed, but the interesting part was the spark of genuine fascination in his eyes.

“I completely believe you did. I think, Detective Holmes, you should try to be more careful then. Two stabbings and a gunshot wound in less than six months are a bit much, I suspect even for you.”

Sherlock grinned unrepentantly and perhaps a bit dangerously. John was flirting with him; that was definitely flirting, right? Sherlock decided to test the waters a bit.

“Oh I’m always careful Dr. Watson. It’s the criminals who get sloppy.”

That! That right there was a quickly hidden look of lust. Perhaps John wasn’t quite so monosexual as Sherlock first deduced. Oh yes, very promising indeed. Sherlock might be able to stand not fulfilling a few of his fantasies if it meant he could lure John into his clutches on a more softcore basis. He would gladly deny his, admittedly somewhat mild, sadistic streak for the privilege of John in his bed. He felt a harsh burn of hope rise in his chest. He had to make this happen. He had to have this man.

John was tilting his head a bit.

“Sounds quite dangerous. Perhaps you should consider a nice night in now and then.”

Sherlock snorted. Then he leant forward intimately and spoke in a low tone so as not to be overheard.

“Oh please, how boring. Besides, as an ex-army doctor wounded in action I would think danger would appeal and quiet nights in would be your worst nightmare. Tell me, does the A&E supply you with enough adrenaline or does it barely take the edge off? I only ask because I could use an assistant and an ex-army doctor used to the occasional hairy situation sounds like a delightful option for back up, wouldn’t you say?”

John gave him a side long glance and huffed a laugh.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, you can see that I already have a job. Besides, I think you could do better than an ex-army doctor with a limp.”

Sherlock flipped a hand in a graceful arc and noted how John’s eyes followed the movement.

“Your limp is entirely psychosomatic. You’re standing as if you’ve forgotten it and have done since you entered this, and I use this word entirely sarcastically, room.”

He waited for the inevitable storming off, but John gave a sort of rueful half smile.

“You’ve pegged me for an army doctor with a psychosomatic limp while on some pretty heavy painkillers. I do believe you are quite good at your job then. I am sorry Mr. Holmes, but I’ll have to turn you down. I’m needed here.”

No! Damn it to hell, but Sherlock was losing him; he could feel his chances slipping through his fingers. He’d come on too strong then, he needed a compromise, but what to do, what to do?...

Ah, yes.

“A pity, but perhaps you’d be willing to give me a medical consult now and then? I find the Met a bit light on reliable medical opinions, especially in Forensics. The less said about Anderson, the better, really. Dr. Hooper downstairs is good with an autopsy, but understandably a bit lost when it comes to the land of the living. Her understanding of exotic poisons and diseases is abysmal. But you! You have experience in various foreign locations, mostly Africa I’m sure, but I’d bet a few Asian postings as well. Tell me, Dr. Watson; do you know the martial art of Baritsu?”

John blinked twice and then tipped his head forward and then back as he chortled with delight. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile at the sound and preen like a peacock at John’s obvious enjoyment of Sherlock’s eccentricities.

He had to make this happen. Please, please, he’d been so good the past few years. He hadn’t touched anything harder than caffeine and nicotine for six years, he’d spent Christmas AND Easter with his parents for two years running, and he’d been celibate ever since he’d realized three years ago that he was substituting sexual addiction for chemical addiction. He needed this to happen. He didn’t know what he’d do if he couldn’t have John.

The doctor managed to get his laughter under control and grinned broadly with mirth dampening the corners of his eyes. He held out his right hand for Sherlock to shake.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, I think I would quite enjoy an acquaintance with you. My schedule varies, but I do generally have an office day on Wednesdays when I’m not on overnights. I’m in room 305 on the third floor any time you feel the urge to save me from paperwork. I do have to warn you, I’m better with animal toxins rather than plant based, but we’ll see how many people you find murdered with lionfish spines in Greater London and then go from there, shall we?”

Sherlock reached out cobra-quick and latched onto John’s small, warm hand with his own much larger paw. The feel of skin-to-skin contact quieted something deep in his chest and he had to bite back a noise that couldn’t have been anything but a purr of contentment. He held on just a shade too long to be completely platonic, but not so much that could be construed badly. Letting go was the hardest thing he’d had to do in a very long time.

“Please, call me Sherlock. I look forward to hearing your opinions on anything interesting I happen to come across.”

John’s eyes twinkled.

“Pleasure to meet you Sherlock, please call me John.”

Sherlock’s insides writhed with triumph.

“John, then. I’m afraid I must be going. The painkillers have finally kicked in and my contact at Scotland Yard is going to be pestering me for paperwork of my own. I shall be in touch as soon as I need a consult. Good night and thank you, John.”

John tipped his chin down in a nod.

Think nothing of it Sherlock. See you around.”

At that, Sherlock really had no other choice but to gather up his coat and walk away from John to the desk to sign his discharge papers and leave.

Getting shot was far less excruciating.

/////////////

_Three weeks later…_

Sherlock was going to go mad, was perhaps already well past the point of no return. He was ready to crawl right out of his skin and go walking out the door a mess of exposed meat and muscle to go on a killing spree until he was promised ownership of John Watson until the end of time.

God, three _weeks._

Three weeks since he had spoken to John and touched his hand. Three weeks since he had seen those navy blue eyes alight with laugher. Three weeks since he had breathed in his presence like ocean air after an entire winter locked away indoors.

He’d of course seen the man, always from a distance. Here, a glimpse of him as the elevator doors closed between them. There, a brief nod as they caught sight of each other in the cafeteria. Once, John had inadvertently come to his territory in the morgue with a bevy of medical students in dire need of a lecture on hospital DOA protocol.

Sherlock was pretty sure John hadn’t even noticed him on that last one, which burned horribly. Sherlock himself could barely even concentrate on anything but his racing thoughts of the doctor he’d only really interacted with for a precious twenty minutes or so.

And oh, what thoughts they were.

Imaginings of John’s sleek, little body sheened with sweat and writhing on Sherlock’s silken bed sheets were interspersed with fantasies of curling up on 221B’s sofa with his head on John’s muscled thighs as his surgeon’s fingers combed through black curls. Sherlock spent as much or more time longing for John’s voice saying ‘Good Morning, Sherlock’ as he did craving to hear ‘God, more, Sherlock!’. He was in so very deep and it was terrifying.

He tried to talk himself back to sanity countless times, he even managed to hold his ground for four whole days before, shaking worse than he had since going through withdrawl, he stumbled into Bart’s on Wednesday at 10 o’clock in the morning just in time to catch John’s surprised and then warm glance as the elevator doors once again closed between them. He hadn’t tried to resist since.

The last two weeks had seen him haunting the halls of Bart’s on the slimmest of pretexts. He drifted in and out of the morgue according to what he knew of John’s schedule, oblivious to Molly’s increasingly hopeful glances and liberal applications of Chanel perfume except to absently remark it smelled like a rotting greenhouse in her office one day. Sherlock was dying in increments, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it because…

THERE WAS BLOODY NOTHING ON!!!

Three weeks of mundane, run of the mill murders, thefts, and kidnappings. Three weeks without a single interesting facet to anything at all, and Sherlock would know since he’d been accepting everything, Met –related or private, that came his way in a desperate attempt to find something that needed a medical consult. He’d even take a broken neck disguised as a suicide by this point, but nothing! They were all point blank shots to the head or heart, breaking and entering with no one the wiser until something was missed, and even the kidnappings were textbook professional affairs where money changed hands and everybody was returned without even a hangnail. It was enough to make anyone cry with frustration!

Lestrade was obviously torn between satisfaction at his case-load lightening, amusement at Sherlock’s visible frustration, and alarm at the consulting detective’s increasingly wild-eyed frenzy. He’d performed two completely serious drugs busts without even Anderson in sight and Sherlock could see the signs of anxiety brought on by prolonged exposure to Mycroft’s interference. How Mycroft had missed Sherlock’s new obsession was a total mystery, but not one that Sherlock could savor in his current state; a state which, at the moment, saw him sitting in a corner of the Bart’s canteen screened behind an anemic potted palm tree and glaring into a lukewarm cup of disgustingly weak tea.

“Hello.”

Sherlock’s head shot up and there before him stood John Watson, swathed in a white lab coat and carrying an identical cup of awful tea whilst leaning on his unnecessary cane. Sherlock had to swallow hard as his mouth was flooded with saliva.

“John! Hello to you as well. Please, have a seat.”

Sherlock tried to smile, but really felt like sobbing with relief as the tight band of discontent around his lungs began to ease at the mere presence of his infatuation. He did a surreptitious check of John’s hands, wrists, neck, and ears, but thankfully saw no jewelry or ink present. One fear appeased, he was able to focus on John’s face and found himself looking into curious blue eyes.

“Thanks, mate. I was wondering if I would ever find you sitting still long enough to say hello. It seems like every time I’ve seen you the last few weeks you’ve been rushing off looking very important and harried. I was hoping you would stop by my office one of these days and let me live through you vicariously, but I suppose chasing criminals is far more exciting than talking about chasing criminals, eh?”

John smiled at him over the rim of his paper cup and Sherlock had to clench his hands together in his lap to keep from tearing his own hair out in sheer frustration. John had wanted him to visit! The last three weeks of Johnlessness could have instead been filled with stories of his triumphs and cups of much better tea and possibly three weeks less of ignorance of what John’s mouth tasted like. Oh, he was an idiot!

“Had I known you were that far along into tedium I would have certainly come by. I’ve been bored myself and trying to keep busy. You would not believe the lack of imagination London’s criminal class is showing these days. All the same thing over and over. In the past three weeks I’ve solved no less than three murders of men who were having secret affairs that their spouses found out about. One was murdered by his husband, one by his mistress, and the last by his wife and his lover together. I’m telling you John, there is nothing new under the sun.”

John smiled and toyed with his cup of tea, turning it in circles fast enough to cause a little whirlpool to form. It looked like a nervous habit. Why? Why was John nervous? Why was John’s nervousness making Sherlock nervous?

John looked up from his tea and smiled with his eyes.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve had two disclocated shoulders caused by overenthusiastic yet underexperienced Doms, four children with mild fevers and panicked parents, sixteen STD tests, and twenty eight cases of food poisonings that turned out to have originated from a restaurant serving less than fresh sushi.”

He leaned forward a bit.

“It’s awful for me to say as a doctor, but sometimes I wish for a little variety myself. I mean, if people are going to hurt themselves anyway, the least they could do is be interesting about it.”

John blushed tomato red and looked down at the table while Sherlock’s mouth fell open and he crash landed into adoration of this remarkably unassuming man in the maroon jumper hiding as twisted an outlook as Sherlock himself. John was perfect, absolutely made for him. What came next was inevitable really.

“Have dinner with me.”

John’s head shot up. He looked shocked.

“Sherlock…it’s not that I don’t want to, because you are the most fascinating person I’ve met in a long time, possibly ever, but I…well, there’s something you should know about me…”

Sherlock waved a hand.

“You’re non-dynamic, yes, I’m aware. I don’t care. You’re absolutely perfect in every other way. Have dinner with me.”

By this time Sherlock was leaning aggressively across the table, willing with all his might that John say yes. John looked a bit stunned and sat back in his chair.

“Sherlock, you’re a Dom, and if I don’t miss my mark, a quite strong one. I can’t be what you need. I don’t like the power games, I don’t like pain mixed with my pleasure, and I really don’t like being made to do demeaning things at the whim of some arsehole in leather pants. I can’t be what you need.”

Sherlock blinked. Well. That had all been rather specific. He tilted his head and stared hard at John for approximately seven seconds. A suspicion was forming in the back of his brain. Now if only John would give him the chance to test it.

“Power imbalance is not my kink, I have very light sadistic tendencies; think hickeys and mild scratch marks over whips and bloodplay, and I get too bored and impatient to come up with elaborate scenes in the bedroom. I play the violin, sometimes very badly if the mood strikes. I get in dark moods spawned of boredom and don’t talk for days on end. I’m rude, callous, and have very limited understanding or even patience for the social niceties of everyday interactions. But I will cherish you, feed your need for danger while keeping you completely safe, and yes, love you to distraction beyond what any other person could possibly feel for you. Have dinner with me.”

Sherlock strained with desperation, quivering like a hunting dog that had caught scent of its prey and was merely waiting the signal of its master. He stared at John, pale eyes flicking quickly between the lapis ones looking back at him just as hard.

John broke first and looked to the left as his hand came up and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah, alright.”

Then he looked quickly back at Sherlock and smirked.

“Just, let’s stay away from sushi, ok?”

Sherlock grinned.

“You have a deal.”

/////////////

Sherlock ran as quickly as he could without breaking into a sweat and ruining the gunmetal grey shirt he had spent forty-five minutes picking out. And now, like an imbecile, he was running late to the most important appointment of his life.

Bloody, buggering, fucking Hell!

He stole a quick look at the, equally carefully selected, minimalist black watch around his left wrist and tried not to throw up. He was seventeen minutes late now and he didn’t have John’s number because he was twelve types of fool and had forgotten _(forgotten! Stupid, stupid!)_ to get it earlier in the cafeteria. He had been so euphoric when John had acquiesced that he’d been in a daze and almost floated out of there after John had left to return to his shift.

And now, tonight of all nights, Sherlock had been unable to summon a taxi out of thin air and been reduced to taking the Tube which had ground to a halt due to some idiot trying to commit suicide on the tracks. He had immediately exited the station and run the fifteen blocks to the very nice, but not over the top Afghani restaurant he’d chosen to take John to and now he was (he checked his watch again) nineteen minutes late and if he fucked this up before it even began there would be another delay on the Tube tonight.

He turned the last corner and nearly collided with a slumped shouldered John Watson who had just walked out of The Helmand with his head down.

Sherlock reached out and grabbed John’s biceps to keep him from toppling over while trying to quell his own slightly elevated breathing. John looked at him, stunned, and then his brows drew down in annoyance and rising anger.

“Sherlock?! Where have you been?! I’ve been waiting twenty minutes with the hostess radiating pity at me so you better have one hell of an explanation.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to comply.

“I’m only nineteen minutes late actually.”

Wait, that hadn’t been what he meant to say and, oh no, John was really looking irritated now. Sherlock backpedalled so quickly he nearly strained something.

“Which is completely irrelevant! Yes, well, it turns out there is some sort of free charity concert at the Symphony tonight so I couldn’t get a cab. Then I tried the Tube, but apparently there was an incident where some sad specimen of humanity tried to throw themselves on the third rail and so I had to run a bit at the end there. Which is why I’m nineteen minutes late. Apologies.”

John glared at him a few more seconds and Sherlock was just about ready to pass out from the stress when John’s lips twisted and he began to giggle. Sherlock couldn’t help but start to laugh at the absurdity with him and soon they were garnering stares from passers-by as they snorted and guffawed and wiped tears from their eyes. John looked quickly around and began to shush him.

“Shhh! We can’t laugh, some poor sod tried to commit suicide by train for God’s sake. We are terrible people.”

Which set them to sniggering again and the pedestrians around them to smiling in amusement and Sherlock couldn’t remember feeling this lighthearted since he was a child running wild at Grandmére’s estate.

He got himself under control and could feel his cheeks stretch around his wide grin. Then he held out a hand towards the front door of the restaurant that was emitting the most heavenly smells.

“Well, I’m here now, so shall we?”

John grinned and leaned subtly toward him. Sherlock glowed.

“Yeah, let’s. You know, I had no idea this was here? Thanks for showing it to me. The food is definitely something I miss from Afghanistan. That and the sky. Bloody hell, but you’ve never seen such a sky-“

“Hey, Freak!”

John looked startled and Sherlock’s head whipped around at the familiar and strident tones of Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan as she stomped up in three inch stiletto heels and a mini dress that admittedly made the Domme‘s legs look ten miles long. Sherlock made a quick scan of her person and came to several conclusions:

One: overdressed for a date, must be a special occasion; anniversary of some sort?

Two: The only person she’s been seeing for any length of time was the married switch Anderson

Three: Her phone was clenched in a death grip in her left hand with the screen still lit up and what looked like a very lengthy text open.

Conclusion: Donovan had been stood up for real and was looking to take out her fury on anyone unlucky enough to be in her vicinity.

Well, fuck. This was going to be trying. He drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at her.

“Ah, Sally, I see Anderson has left you in dire straits again, and on your, what, six month anniversary? Tsk, tsk. You do realize his wedding anniversary was Wednesday, yes? I imagine he’s with his wife celebrating the happy occasion. A pity really, you look like you went to some effort, though you really shouldn’t wear such a heavy floral perfume, it doesn’t suit you. Try Prada Amber, perhaps. You’ll thank me if you do.”

From the corner of his eye he saw John’s angry scowl morph into amazement and then skip to wry humor. Sherlock smirked down at Sally as she ground her teeth and glared daggers at him. Then she must have realized she wasn’t going to get to vent her spleen by attacking him directly and her laser focus switched abruptly to John. Sherlock felt alarm begin to swell as Sally’s smirk grew vicious.

“And just who are you, then? What are you doing hanging around with the Freak? Did you lose a bet?”

Oh, that last one stung a bit, he’d admit, but John’s spine was stiffening and his arms were crossing and he had on what Sherlock was sure must be his best commanding officer scowl and Sherlock as a Dom was finding that inexplicably hot and oh, God he really couldn’t get an erection in the middle of the street in front of Sally fucking Donovan of all people.

John’s voice was gravelly and clipped.

“I’m his date actually. Who the hell are you?”

Sally reeled back as if struck and turned to Sherlock, completely ignoring John’s question. That was not her first mistake, and, as it turned out, was definitely not going to be her last.

“A date?! And how does someone like you get a date? What, did he follow you home?”

She was just starting to cackle when John shifted into her line of vision and caught her eye. Sally choked off her cruel laughter and Sherlock looked on in fascination.

“He asked me out and I accepted, although really he just beat me to the punch. I probably would have asked him myself in another day or two. So, no, I did not ‘follow him home’, but I have high hopes for later this evening.”

Sally’s mouth dropped open and Sherlock’s breath caught at the thought of being allowed to take John to Baker Street at the end of the night. Then John reached out and laced his fingers with Sherlock’s, giving a tug in the direction of the door. Sherlock smirked at Sally and lifted one shoulder in a Gallic shrug.

“We can continue this dance another time Sally. I’m afraid my card is full tonight. Good evening. Do try not to eat your body weight in ice cream, you know how it goes straight to your hips.”

That last shot was admittedly catty, but Sherlock didn’t care. John snickered and Sally’s face grew red in humiliation and anger. But evidently she didn’t know when to quit because she was soon calling out to their departing backs.

“You should really rethink subbing for the likes of Sherlock Holmes you know. He’s a complete psychopath, probably wouldn’t stop no matter how many times you safeworded. Just think of that before you let him near you or you’ll end up cut to ribbons and dumped in the river or something.”

John stopped short, breathed deeply, executed an abrupt about face and quick marched back to Donovan. Sally, despite being a good two inches taller than the diminutive doctor thanks to her heels, quailed a bit at whatever she saw in his gaze.

“Now you listen here you bitter, vindictive harpy. I don’t care for you, your opinion, or your really quite pathetic jealousy. If I ever hear you slandering Sherlock like that again I’ll have your badge, and yeah, I can tell a copper when I see one. Sherlock’s not the only one who can notice things. So you can just toddle off in that ridiculous get-up and go drown your sorrows in that ice cream he was mentioning while pondering the state of your sordid little romance while I have dinner with the most brilliant man I’ve ever met and then maybe, if I’m really lucky, he’ll deign to take me back to his place and shag my brains out.”

Oh God, John in his bed, his voice gone hoarse and a necklace of love bites around his neck. Maybe John would even let him wind his Japanese rope around him if he didn’t actually tie it to anything. His skin would look so beautiful contrasting with the blood red silk. Sherlock was going to die from lust before dinner even started. He was doomed.

John then executed a text book about face and walked back to Sherlock, placing a hand in the small of his back and guiding him to the door. Then John reached out and opened said door, ushered Sherlock through and then reached out to slip off his coat and hand it to the girl at the coat check. The niggling little suspicion Sherlock was harboring grew just that much stronger.

The hostess, dressed in a full length black velvet gown that covered her from neck to wrists and wearing a lovely embroidered hijab in an emerald green that showed off her striking eyes, smiled warmly at them. She wore two tasteful golden cuff bracelets around both wrists, showing her as a claimed submissive according to Middle Eastern culture. She was extremely beautiful. Sherlock barely gave her a glance.

“Good evening to you Mr. Holmes and to your companion as well. Welcome to The Helmand, gentlemen, I am Shazadi. Please follow me, your table is ready and Fadi will be serving you tonight.”

She brought them to a secluded table in a cozy alcove lit by a single candle and, with a slight bow and a gentle touch to her forehead, Shazadi turned gracefully and glided away without making a sound.

John watched her out of the corner of his eye and then turned his attention to Sherlock.

“So, you’re a regular here then?”

Sherlock smiled and picked up his menu to browse the appetizers. John hastened to do the same.

“I come occasionally. Shazadi and her Dom Rafid are the owners of the restaurant. They were an invaluable resource to me when I solved a case involving heroin smuggling from Afghanistan a few years back. It caused the rather nasty group of smugglers who were pressuring them to use their import supply chain as a drug mule operation to go to prison for a very long time. Their son Fadi, our waiter, was nearly beaten to death as an example. They’re grateful for what I did, even though I didn’t strictly do it for them. I call ahead and they make sure to save me some of the Kaddo.”

John smiled.

“I don’t think I’ve had Kaddo, what is it?”

Sherlock pointed to it on the menu.

“Spiced pumpkin that’s been fried and then baked, seasoned with sugar and served with garlic yougurt and beef sauce. It sounds strange to us, but is really quite good.”

John was just about to answer when a slim young boy with the presence of a Dom set a steaming plate of the dish they were just discussing down between them. He stepped back and smiled widely at Sherlock, showing off brilliantly white teeth covered in shiny, metal braces. He was only fifteen years old, but had a three inch knot of scar tissue at the left hinge of his jaw, a souvenir of his beating at the hands of monsters a scant year ago. He had his mother’s vibrant green eyes, though what he lacked in her grace he made up for in puppy-like exuberance.

“Good evening Mr. Holmes, it is my honour to serve you and your friend tonight. Father has instructed me to let you know he has planned a special meal for you and your guest, and that he will not hear of any argument.”

At this Fadi turned to John and gave a slight bow from the waist.

“I apologize Sir, but we do not serve alcohol here. We have a wide selection of non alcoholic beverages, but if I may, I would suggest that Sir try the mint tea as is traditional.”

John smiled warmly at the boy, who blinked and blushed ever so slightly. Sherlock felt a curl of jealous anger in his stomach and cleared his throat sharply. Fadi straightened a bit and looked over to Sherlock sheepishly while John’s eyebrow rose and he hid a smirk at the posturing of the two Doms and shot Sherlock a significant look. Sherlock cleared his throat again, in embarrassment this time, and then shrugged ever so slightly and let his lips twist in a half smile.

John turned to Fadi, who had been watching the silent exchange with fascinated delight, and smiled again.

“Thank you Fadi, I think we will have the tea as well as some water, still for me, and, what would you prefer Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyes roved over John’s calm face before turning his gaze to Fadi.

“Sparkling for me, please. And give our thanks to your father as well. I’m sure his plans for our meal are impeccable as always.”

Fadi flashed his blinding white-and-silver grin again.

“Yes Mr. Holmes, right away. I’m sure Father will stop by before the end of your meal to make sure all has been to your satisfaction. Please let me know if you need anything at all.”

With a final half bow, the eager teenager moved away with coltish movements that nevertheless hinted at the strength and grace he would grow into as a powerful Dom. He was young still, however, and Sherlock reminded himself that Fadi was barely aware of his dynamic and therefore could be forgiven the unaccountable rudeness of ogling another Dom’s claimed interest without the necessity of a duel. Although the kid really needed to get his head on straight before he got his teeth knocked in again for entirely different reasons than the last time. His parents did very well for themselves, but orthodontics were hideously expensive and it would be a shame to have to redo a whole year’s worth of repair work.

Sherlock tore his calculating gaze from the back of Fadi’s black shirt and turned back to see John staring at him with exasperated amusement and crossed arms.

“I get that there are all the little social power displays between dynamics that can’t completely be avoided regardless of my total lack of need or interest in them, but perhaps we could refrain from intimidating kids into submission for looking at me yeah? If this is going to have a prayer of working, I will acquiesce to a certain amount of possessiveness on your part and you will acknowledge that I don’t need to be hoarded and protected like some spun glass trinket, deal?”

Sherlock felt a few more puzzle pieces slide into place in his head and smiled darkly back.

“Yes, we have a deal.”

////////////

Sherlock had died and gone to Heaven. That was the only explanation for his current circumstances. He had, contrary to all available evidence, made it into someone’s very, very good books and this was his reward.

John and Sherlock had finished a supremely excellent meal that had included three courses of Rafid’s finest dishes, the man himself delivering their dessert of a cardamom and pineapple cake topped with homemade ice cream and vibrant, tart pomegranate sauce and gleefully accepting their well-deserved praises for his culinary skills. The big Dom had smiled broadly at the two of them even as he had misted over with tears of gratitude for Sherlock’s deeds in saving his family from the smuggling ring. He had shaken Sherlock’s hand enthusiastically and bowed to John without making eye contact in a sign of deep respect for the both of them and their budding relationship.

They had taken their leave of the lovely family carrying a take away bag of delicacies they hadn’t been allowed to refuse and continued on their evening. They’d strolled through Regent’s Park, wandering the paths that brought them past the zoo and various buskers, and settled in to watch the last act of a free performance of Much Ado About Nothing going on in a free-standing stage.

Through their travels they had chatted and gotten to know each other better. John had spoken of his difficult relationship with his family, his love of medicine, and his acclimatization to civilian life and the anger it brought him. Sherlock revealed to John things he’d never shared willingly with anyone before; his devastation at his childhood dog, Redbeard’s death, his lifelong fascination with bees, and his regrettable descent into substance abuse and struggles with depression. They had questioned, teased, and laughed together with their fingers laced tightly and their heads bowed toward each other, too wrapped up in their own world to catch the sometimes indulgent, sometimes envious glances thrown their way.

When the moon had risen wanly in the soft June sky and the lamps had come on to combat the darkness, Sherlock had stepped off of the path and tugged John behind him only to turn and press him into the trunk of a tree out of sight of any curious eyes. He’d pressed a slick, slow kiss into John’s open, willing mouth and felt his blood ignite as John’s soft moan of encouragement reached his ears. He’d trailed kisses down John’s throat and back up the side of his neck to whisper hotly in his ear.

“I want you, come home with me, say yes.”

John had arched until their chests were pressed together heart to heart and murmured.

“Oh, God, yes.”

The trip to Baker Street had been a blur of quick marching interspersed with snog breaks in alleyways as Sherlock took them on the most direct route he knew to his front door. They’d whirled into the foyer breathless from laughter and kisses, and Sherlock had shushed John’s giggles with a pointed look at the darkness peeking out from under Mrs. Hudson’s doors. Hopefully she had taken her herbal soothers tonight. She’d certainly regret it if she hadn’t.

Sherlock had crowded John up the stairs and into the cluttered sitting room, stripping off both of their coats and leaving them in a heap on the floor. He toed off his shoes, encouraging John to do the same as the doctor quickly did away with both of their shirts and started on their belt buckles as well. By the time they bounced down onto the hunter green sheets of Sherlock’s downturned bed, they were hard, naked, and frantic in their kisses and caresses.

Sherlock had been kissing John’s throat again, desperately trying not to give into the urge to suck bruises into it, when John had given a huff of laughter.

“Go on then, love. I can feel you vibrating you want to so badly. Mark me up as you like, just no broken skin, ok?”

“Yes, yes, John, thank you.”

He had then given John an absolutely gorgeous collar of dark purple bruises midway up the column of his strong neck that had no chance of being hidden beneath a buttoned up shirt. John had shuddered and moaned and rutted up into Sherlock’s abdomen with his weeping cock and Sherlock had felt a fierce possessiveness rip through him and howl in satisfaction at the physical sign of his claiming. He’d pulled back and sat up to admire his handiwork and John’s heaving chest. John had looked up at him with black eyes wild with want.

“Sherlock, get the damn lube and get inside me, now, or I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

Sherlock had laughed and smacked the doctor very lightly where thigh met buttock and grinned at John’s jump and playful glare. He’d then leaned over to the bedside table and pulled out a bottle of lube and a condom, accidentally spilling a few coils of scarlet rope over the edge of the drawer. He was just leaning back over John with his prizes when a hand planted itself in the center of his chest and he looked up in surprise to see John looking at him calculatingly.

“What do we have here?”

John had then reached out and grabbed the red silk and pulled out all seven meters of it into a coiled pile on the bed.

“Kinbaku rope, huh? You know how to use this?”

Sherlock felt his heart rate speed up.

“I’ve been learning the art since my dynamic became apparent when I was fourteen. I studied in Tokyo for six months the year I turned eighteen. I’m a master, actually.”

John raised a calculating eyebrow.

“This is silk. I thought tradition dictated hemp or jute?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“I find silk to be more sensual. I find pleasure in possession, not discomfort. It’s less about inflicting my will on another person than that person giving themselves into my care.”

John ran his fingers over the shiny rope and stared hard at Sherlock for a full five seconds as Sherlock hoped desperately that John wasn’t about to gather his clothes and disappear forever. Then John, astonishing, wonderful John, pressed the cord into Sherlock’s free hand and lay back down.

“Show me.”

Sherlock’s hand clenched fitfully around red silk and he dove forward to take John’s mouth in a searing kiss. He placed the lube and condom to the side and proceeded to wind the rope around John’s body in an intricate pattern that resulted in his thighs spread wide and bound to his shoulders, but left a free range of movement and his hands completely untouched. Sherlock was just putting aside the last length of rope, what would usually be used to tie the submissive to the headboard or some such, when John took up the loose end in his left hand. He then laced the fingers of his right hand with Sherlock’s left and looped the soft cord three times around their wrists, joining them together. Sherlock’s heart throbbed with the beauty of the sight of them physically tied together and he looked on a beatifically smiling John with awe.

What had followed was the slowest, most sensual, most passionate hour of Sherlock’s life to date. He had prepared John into a writhing ball of need as he felt his own desires ebb and flow in a constant closed circuit that followed the rush of blood through his body. They were dripping in sweat, their mingled musk and cries of pleasure undulating out to fill every corner and crevice of Sherlock’s bedroom. Finally, unable to take John’s hoarse begging or the increasing demands of his own body, he had eased himself into John to the hilt and begun a series of three tiny hitching throbs followed by one long luxurious glide out and in and repeated the pattern over and over and over as John’s eyes screwed shut and his neck arched against the pillows.

Sherlock came out of his own head for the third time since he’d slid home to do a quick check of John’s state of mind. The small doctor was trembling; his eyes rolled back into his head and his voice a constant murmur of keening moans. John’s words had left him over a half hour ago, his senses turned solely on Sherlock for almost as long. Sherlock tracked John’s breathing and watched his fluttering pulse in the hollow of his throat, never faltering in his rhythm of press, press, press, glide. Yes, John was there, was ready, and God knew Sherlock was too.

He changed up his pattern to press, press, glide, glide, and counted down exactly five minutes in his head. John’s whines turned up in volume and pitch and between one second and the next Sherlock abandoned the small presses completely for just the long, smooth glides that rubbed the swollen head of his cock over the oversensitive nub of John’s prostate. Barely twenty strokes in and John screamed as he came untouched in great gouts for a long, endless minute and then writhed drily for two more. Sherlock’s own orgasm punched through him and he came for long minutes himself, his only, very fleeting, regret born of the knowledge that he was coming into the condom and not marking John with his DNA as well. Soon.

Sherlock carefully fell to the side of John and watched John’s semi-conscious state with pride and enjoyed the tingling of his skin. When John’s fierce trembling began to ease and Sherlock judged him safe to touch, he began to gently unwind him from the sweat-darkened red cord, massaging tight muscles and slowly lowering John’s legs from where they had been suspended for over an hour. He checked his new lover over thoroughly, smoothing his hands over the golden skin and dropping kisses as the whim took him, doing everything he would have done for an actual sub in need of aftercare. John didn’t seem to mind as his occasional shivers slowed and stopped and he took one great heaving breath before turning to look at Sherlock and gift him with a wide, satisfied smile.

“So. Japanese rope bondage and tantric sex on the first date. It’s official; I’m keeping you for as long as you’ll have me.”

Sherlock felt as if he could float away on sheer euphoria.

“So you’ll be moving in tomorrow then?”

He hid his smile in John’s shoulder as the ex-soldier’s delighted laugh rang through the room.

“Well, give me a week at least.”

Sherlock gave him three days. John didn’t seem to mind.

/////////////

_One month later…._

John was a wonder and Sherlock had never been so blissfully happy in his entire life. He had no idea how this was working; a possessive, highly controlling Dom and a non-dynamic strong-willed healer, but as long as it continued to work for the rest of their lives, he’d never complain again. Well…

“Aaargggg, Joooohn…I’m bored, so bored, please, please find me a case!!!”

Sherlock was draped across the couch like a consumptive swan in a bedsheet while John peered at him over the rim of his newspaper and reached to sip his perfectly prepared tea.

“Sorry, love, but unless I go out and become a serial killer myself there’s nothing on worthy of your time. And it’s raining cats and dogs out there, so I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

Sherlock grinned.

“Oh? And how would you do it? Strangulation? Stabbing? Drowning? Come on, John, let’s play murder. Give me a puzzle.”

John giggled warmly and Sherlock’s heart swelled.

“Why, no, of course not; I am a doctor after all. I’d use a paralytic poison on them, them being unworthy criminals of course, and then harvest their organs while they were still alive, all in an effort to fulfill the organ donor list of good people who deserve to live more. Then, I’d very mercifully overdose my victims on morphine and dissolve what was left in acid. You’d have nothing to go on but a string of missing persons cases and unfounded suspicions.”

John rustled his newspaper and went back to reading the rugby scores.

“Not that you’d act upon your suspicions because then I’d be in prison and you wouldn’t be able to shag me into our mattress anymore.”

Oh God. John had just created a wonderful case study for him out of thin air, all because Sherlock had asked. John, who made him tea, forced him to eat and sleep, took care of paying bills and household chores, and let Sherlock love him fiercely. His perfect, amazing John whom Sherlock was almost positive wasn’t non-dynamic at all, but a service submissive of the highest order though he dared not voice this opinion out loud. John loved pampering him as much as Sherlock loved being pampered.

Sherlock eeled himself off of the couch and slithered to kneel between John’s quickly spread thighs. He pulled away the barrier of the newspaper and swarmed up to take John’s mouth in a scorching kiss. His sheet dropped to his waist, baring his torso to John’s hungry gaze as his long, violinist fingers plucked apart the flies of John’s trousers. His doctor’s sturdy, hard cock tented his pants, the moist head just peeking over the elastic of the waistband. Sherlock’s mouth watered.

“Oh, love, wait, I need to go to work in a few minutes.”

John’s fingers were woven through Sherlock’s hair, belying his words and so Sherlock smiled sharply and leaned forward to lick at that tempting head. John’s hips thrust the tiniest bit and a helpless sound was torn from his throat.

“Jesus, you’re gorgeous, so beautiful, but I can’t right now, I have to go.”

Sherlock ignored him and pulled the front of John’s pants down to hook under his bollocks.

“Shh, just let me, you’ll feel so good and you can go to work with my spit and your come dried all over your cock to remind you what you have to come home to. I’ll be with you all day this way and you can remember all through your shift. It’ll be delicious, yes?”

John moaned and then shouted as Sherlock pushed his mouth down to the root in one fell swoop. John’s fingers tightened, but Sherlock clamped his hands hard around John’s hips, pinning him in place and keeping a measure of control that was just enough to satisfy his inner Dom, but wouldn’t push John’s boundaries.

“Oh! Oh God, yeah love, just like that. Mmmmm….”

John’s chest was heaving, his voice low and hoarse the way it always got when Sherlock brought him to the edge. Sherlock was hard under his sheet and reveling in his ability to take John apart so thoroughly. He crept a hand down and fisted himself over the white silk, the material smooth and damp from his precome and feeling so very good. Oh, he was going to come like this, on his knees by his own hand while John broke beautifully underneath him.

And so he did.

The two of them were gasping from their intense orgasms, Sherlock slumped over John’s lap and John melted into the cushion of his chair. John waved a hand.

“Ok, you convinced me. Cool kids are always late anyway.”

Sherlock laughed as John gently pushed him to the side and struggled up with his trousers loose and sagging around his thighs. He watched as John put himself to rights until his mildly high color was the only evidence of what they’d just gotten up to. Well, except for the ring of hickeys around John’s neck just above the tightly buttoned collar of his shirt. It satisfied something wild and purring within him to see it.

John walked back over to where Sherlock was still lounging on the floor and dropped a kiss into ebony curls. Then he straightened up, smirked, and strutted away.

“Get dressed love and make sure you eat something! Don’t worry, something interesting is bound to turn up soon and there’s always the diseased liver in the crisper to play with.”

With that John was gone and Sherlock was left with his head lolling on John’s seat cushion and a stupid grin on his face as he stared up at the ceiling and marveled at his good fortune. Then he rolled to his feet, letting the sheet slide down in a pile on the floor and strolling nude into their bedroom to get ready for the day. Maybe he’d head over to Bart’s himself and pester Molly a bit and then join John for lunch.

He was perusing his sock index for the pair he favored to go with his black St. Laurent suit and claret shirt when the worn leather box caught his eye. Momentarily abandoning his quest, he lifted it out with reverence. When Mycroft had proven to be a Dom at thirteen, their mother, as the family Dom, had presented him with a filigreed golden collar from India to be gifted to his future sub and spouse as was tradition. When Sherlock had also turned out to be a Dom, his father’s mother, Sherlock’s Grandmére, had gifted him with this.

He slowly opened the lid of the box, which creaked slightly with age, and gazed at the gorgeous worked platinum and sapphire collar that had been in the Vernét family for two centuries. It was a solid ring with a grape vine, homage to the famous Vernét vineyards, delicately molded in relief, the grapes represented by tiny, sparkling sapphires so dark as to look almost black. However, when the light hit them, they sparked a deep blue that would perfectly match his John’s eyes.

He daydreamed for a moment; John at his side, wearing his collar as Sherlock slipped a matching platinum wedding band on his finger. Then he gave one last, longing look at the now useless collar before replacing it in the drawer sadly and continuing on with his day.

/////////////

It was eating at him.

Everything was absolutely brilliant except for this one thing.

John wasn’t his.

Well he _was_ and what’s more Sherlock knew it. He could see it in John’s eyes when he looked at the detective; the fascination, the awe, the love, it was all there and it warmed and completed Sherlock, it really did. He wasn’t truly worried that John would stray from him, though to even contemplate it made him want to retch and curl into a ball of misery and die. 

It was other people.

Sherlock saw how others looked at his doctor; with admiration, calculation, and avarice. And why shouldn’t they? John was glorious. He was handsome, confident, kind, and had an edge of competent danger that was immensely appealing. Hell, even Lestrade, that one time John had his week off A&E rotation and was able to come along on the serial killer cabbie case, had looked at John shrewdly, and not just because he suspected John of killing Jeff Hope either.

Donovan _(bloody Donovan!),_ now that she was finished with Anderson for good, had a speculative gleam in her eye when John showed up despite knowing he was living with Sherlock and pretty much despised her.

It wasn’t just other Doms either, the submissive DI Dimmock had almost fallen to his knees upon meeting John the first time and now followed the blond with his eyes whenever in the same room. Even sweet Molly, who fancied herself in love with Sherlock, had started remembering John’s name and smiling shyly at him when he wandered into the morgue looking to have lunch with Sherlock. It was maddening.

But Sherlock couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Never mind that Sherlock truly believed that John was a service submissive who’d been mentally and emotionally scarred by a Dom in some way (and didn’t that just bear contemplation of murder), but the fact was that _John_ didn’t believe it. To ask that he wear the Vernét collar, a great honor and cherished event for any Dom/sub pair, would be a high insult to John. It would show that Sherlock neither respected nor understood his non-dynamic orientation. It would look like he wanted to force John to sacrifice himself entirely for Sherlock’s benefit. He couldn’t do that.

He _wouldn’t_ do that.

So he kept the necklace of bruises fresh around John’s throat. He slowly replaced John’s clothing piece by piece in an effort to ensure John was always wearing at least one item that Sherlock had given him. He continually ambushed John before he left the flat with sex so that he would have reminders of Sherlock throughout the day, carried the scent of Sherlock on his skin like a brand.

John knew what he was doing and put up with it, but Sherlock could see the stress was getting to them both. There was a new anxiousness in John’s eyes when he searched Sherlock’s gaze before pressing a hard kiss to his mouth and leaving the flat. It was as if John were just as worried Sherlock was going to declare enough was enough and kick him out as Sherlock was worried John would get entirely fed up with Sherlock’s admittedly strong tendency towards possessiveness and leave.

They didn’t talk about it.

They needed to talk about it.

They were too afraid to talk about it.

They laughed and bickered and fucked and loved each other and let it eat away at them both and never, ever talked about it.

And then the building across the street blew up and everything changed.

////////////

Jim from IT, Moriarty was Jim from IT and Sherlock had missed it and now John was swathed in enough semtex to take down Big Ben and oh God, oh God, oh God; _John!_

The other Dom was laughing, gleeful with his victory, and it _was_ a victory. Sherlock was on his knees, the gun and the plans tossed at Moriarty’s feet, completely beaten and ready to beg as John looked on in horror as the red laser sights danced across pale skin and ebony curls.

Moriarty laughed and laughed and laughed and pressed a button.

BOOM

“Sherlock, wake up!!! Wake up, love, please wake up!!!”

Sherlock jerked awake, tears on his face and John hovering above him. A split second later he had thrown John onto his back, spread his legs, and driven his adrenaline fueled erection brutally in, in, in to John’s previously slicked and stretched hole….

“Oh, yeah, yes Sherlock, love, yes, yes, yes! I’m here, I’m yours, I’m here, please! Harder, fuck me harder, God yes….”

Sherlock was a grunting animal, John a babbling mess as they spun higher and tighter before they both exploded outward and dropped in a gasping, heaving pile of entwined limbs. Sherlock’s forehead was pressed to John’s clavicle as John’s fingers threaded and petted through the hair on the back of his head. Then John dipped his face down, pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s crown, and whispered…

“I love you.”

Sherlock froze, trembled, and broke down completely. The tears ran down his face as he surged up and kissed John like he’d die without him, which, to be fair, he was entirely sure he would.

“I love you, John, I love you, I love you, please, please will you….”

Sherlock shuddered and put his head down to John’s chest again, biting back the words, fighting with himself before he ruined everything. John’s arms closed around his shoulders and his voice was thick as he began to speak.

“My father was our family Dom. He was extremely traditional and a vicious sadist. My mother was a service submissive from an equally traditional family and had been given to him in an arranged marriage. It wasn’t happy.”

Sherlock stilled, afraid to look up as John took a fortifying breath and continued.

“My mum, she wasn’t a masochist, she was a caretaker. She hated my father, but couldn’t help but take care of him. Harry and I, she loved us as much as she could, but we were a constant reminder of him and I guess she just couldn’t…well, anyway.”

John’s voice had a far away quality now.

“He would drug her and use her. She could hardly move some days. He’d make her crawl and eat her dinner from a dog bowl at the foot of his chair. She had to walk three paces behind him and kneel at his side whenever he was in the room. I never saw her in a chair in his presence, not once, not even when the cancer started eating her alive. The bastard would still make her crawl when she could barely support herself she had such little strength.”

Sherlock gasped and lifted his head.

“That…John, that’s not how it’s supposed to be. That’s not how Doms and subs are supposed to be, not a partnership. That was just abuse.”

John smiled sadly, but stoically.

“Yeah, love, I know. But…I also knew I was like her. You have to understand, I watched this for eighteen years before I could escape to school and the army. I resolved when I was fourteen to never, ever let anyone have a chance at demeaning me like that. So when it became apparent to me what I was going to be I just…pushed it away. It worked. I really don’t like pain, not real pain, at all, and I have absolutely no taste for power games or humiliation. Whether that’s natural or a result of watching my father even I don’t know, but it’s worked for me my whole life. Non-dynamics like to do for each other almost as much as service submissives do, just without the underlying power dynamics. They just do it because it makes them and their partner happy to make each other happy. I like that.”

Another deep breath.

“And then I met you, and Sherlock, God, you’re everything my father wasn’t, everything I could ever hope for in a Dom and partner. I love to care for you, and I love that you love it too. I love your marks and your ropes and your scent on me when I go through my day; I love it all, just as much as you do, just as much as I love you.”

He smiled down at where Sherlock was looking at him avidly with bated breath.

“I know about the collar in your sock drawer.”

Sherlock gasped and looked down, ashamed. John placed a gentle hand under his chin and lifted his face back up.

“Shh, no, I’m not mad. That collar is bloody amazing and if I were even one iota less fucked up I’d be begging you for it, but…”

Sherlock’s heart sank and John smiled sadly at him.

“I can’t say that I’ll never want it, but I can’t promise that I’ll ever want it either. But…I’ve been thinking…you remember Shazadi? From our first date? I’ve been thinking about her wrist cuffs.”

Sherlock felt his eyes widen.

_“John…”_

His deep voice was barely more than a whisper and John smiled down at him, just a barely there curve of his lips.

“I think I’d like that; matching cuffs for each of us, if you would agree. I’m possessive too, and you have no idea how people look at you. I’ve nearly growled at Molly so many times, and Anderson! My God, that man practically salivates whenever your back is turned.”

Sherlock blinked and felt his nose scrunch. John laughed and kissed his forehead.

“I know, I know, he’s Anderson, but my point is that you walk into a room and your presence just fills every corner of it. People literally cannot look away, and it drives me completely round the twist. I want to be yours and have you be mine and for everyone who sees us to know it. I know it might be a little soon for the cuffs, but perhaps some ink? It doesn’t have to be overly noticeable. I was thinking something small on our wrists or the palms of our hands, easily hidden by gloves. I just-“

“Yes!”

Sherlock kissed John with an edge of desperation.

“Yes, yes to all of it, to tattoos and wrist cuffs and bloody wedding rings. Please, yes, John. Please.”

John grinned widely and leaned down to kiss Sherlock in turn.

Then he pulled back, pushed Sherlock’s fringe away and cupped his cheek and dropped a much more chaste kiss on his lips and spoke against them.

“So…we have a deal then love?”

Sherlock kissed back and grinned.

“Yes John.”

He drew back, caught John’s wrists up to either side of the blond head, and drove his newly hard cock home again to the music of John’s startled gasp.

“Yes, we most certainly have a deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> The Helmand is a real restaurant in Cambridge, Massachusetts and I've had both the Kaddo and the cardamom cake and they are DELICIOUS!!! I highly recommend anyone who happens to be in the Boston area try it. You'll thank me if you do.
> 
> 6/26/15 - Hey there! So, according to my stats page, this story has become my most popular work on AO3! Thank you so much to every bookmarker, kudoser, commenter, and shy lurker out there who made that happen. You're all beautiful, wonderful people and I love you all. Mwah!


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